A small village, a small town, a small spec on the map of Ireland was where the whole of the county of Enderbren resided. The sounds of joy and laughter brought a smile to the listener’s unseen lips as he made his way to the center of the town, the setting for which the nightlife had its beginning: old Fenner Smithiron’s tavern, The Starving Buzzard. Making his way through the night, the visitor entered the room.
“Aye, Jamison, close the durned shutters! The chill’s makin’ me bones grow weary!” Fenner yammered at the young boy earnestly sweeping behind the counter. The gust of wind had spread the shutters wide open and the chill was making the guests shiver, although none could take their attention from the man standing atop the table wielding a mug of ale in one fingerless-gloved hand, while grasping a fiddle and bow in the other similarly attired hand. With his tousled brown hair, worn trousers, shirt, and patchwork coat, the man appeared as a dashing vagabond who stumbled into the parlor.
“And you, Vaileyn, play us another, or so help me I’ll have yer arse as the welcome rug and we’ll trample ye bones for our entertain’ent!” The crowd erupted in laughter at Fenner’s remark and toasted to the frivolity, but the man Vaileyn simply took an awkward swig of his ale and began stomping his foot on the table rhythmically. Almost tripping, he began the beat again and pointed his bow at Fenner.
“Well then, ye done and asked for it then, Fen. This ‘ere tune’s called ‘Fenner’s Wisdom: Drink and Be Ye Dumb for the Morrow’s a Hag!’ “ He brought his fiddle to his neck and in minutes, music filled the air, encompassing every listener with each magical note. Old Fenner smirked and refilled mugs at the counter, all the while tapping his foot to the beat. Soon enough, all the patrons were up in the music, clapping their hands and toasting their mugs. Glancing around the room with a grin, Fenner gaze fell to a fellow red-haired Irishman sitting at a lone table by the now-closed window quietly smiling and tapping his foot to the commotion. The man wore simple breeches, tan shirt and forest green vest. His travel cloak lay on the table crumpled into a ball. Nothing drew attention, yet his grin and eyes caught Fenner, and the odd notion that the visitor had no mug at his table. Sighing through his lips, Fenner grabbed two newly washed mugs from off the counter and filled them with his home brew.
“Aye, lad, the night’s a young and I’m yer master in these ‘ere parts, and the one thing I can’t stand is one of me guests not enjoyin’ himself fully.” He slammed the mug on the table. “Because I’m such a God-fearin’ gentleman, this ‘ere is free, its me own brew, so boy, lets all be friends here!” He put his mug to his lips and pulled in a mouthful of the strong ale while looking over the top of his mug at the visitor. The visitor grinned and swiped up the mug and took a long gulp. Wiping the froth off his mouth, he put the mug back on the table. Fenner belched and clapped the man on the back. “There ye be, now that there’s more like it. From which parts do ye hail, stranger?”
“Name’s Wyndall, I hail from the Northern reaches of these good parts, past the mountains. Just passin’ through yer amiable town. And you must be Fenner?”
“Ha, the name’s preceded me, lad, now what be yer business ‘ere?”
“Oh, like I said, just passin’ through.” He grinned and took another long swig from his mug.
“Aye boy, them there’s strong stuff, I’d know for meself, don’t want you teetering out of here just yet on yer heels!” Fenner laughed and the two toasted.
“Ha! Aye, but it’ll be eternity before I fall on me feet, good Fenner!” The man lithely rose to his feet and made his way to the center of the room where Vaileyn had began another tirade of commotion. Grinning ear to ear, he leapt onto the table and motioned towards the fiddler. “Aye, start us another, Vaileyn!”
With a sweeping bow, the fiddler began again, his feet moving in time with the notes, and rapidly and tactfully letting loose a flurry of music that gripped each onlooker in their stead. With a laugh, Wyndall danced atop the table, his feet becoming a blur of motion as he matched the tunes. The scene was majestic; like witnessing the wind’s dance through the autumn leaves.
Wyndall grinned and moved his gaze around the room, settling on a pretty young woman flashing a smile from behind the mug that she sipped. Vaileyn increased the tempo of tune as Wyndall bounded off of the table, sunk to one knee before the woman, and grasped her hand in his. With a dashing sweep of his hand, he bowed his head before—and took a quick gulp of his ale.
“If ye might be so kind, sweet damsel, to accompany me with a dance on this illustriously jovial eve?”
The woman’s face blushed to a bright red contrasting with her black hair and she took a quick sip from her mug. With a shy smile, she took his hand and nodded. In a whirl of motion, they were attuned to the rhythm of the dance—one with the music.
Playing on into the hours of morning, Vaileyn’s tune never ceased until the last of the patrons staggered out the door into the dark.
Wyndall, the grin on his face never leaving, kissed the young woman’s wrist as she walked out the door.
“May our dance not be over just yet, my fair lass.” He stood and bowed dramatically. “Could I be yet so bold as to request the acquisition to the name of such a fair maiden?”
She smiled and withdrew her hand, “Ciara.” With a wave of her hair, she walked out the door.
Wyndall turned to where Vaileyn was wiping down his fiddle and bow. “Aye, ye be quite the musician, Vaileyn.”
The fiddler merely grinned and twirled his bow through the air, “I feel the music like the wind on the plains through the grass; it just surrounds you and the music flows through it.”
Eyebrows raising, Wyndall coughed and snapped his fingers, “Aye that’s quite the metaphorical ye got there, lad.”
“Ha, you like that, I got my a bit more where that came from. A little like your new lady-friend—you two are much alike as a deadbolt and its key: in too deep, twisted and turned, then withdrawn ne’er to be seen till the next entrance, if ye catch me drift.”
“Well, mightn’t you be quite the prophet there, Vaileyn? I reckon ye just foresaw me evening tonight then. I’ll let ye know how the key fits.” He winked.
With a burst of laughter, the two men stepped over to the bar where Fenner stood with a towel and mug, shaking his head. “Aye, ye two bein’ a mindful of dear Ciara; she’s been known to me since she was just a little one,” he motioned with the mug towards Wyndall, “So ye stranger, what really be yer business in there ‘ere parts? ‘Just a timely visit’ ain’t none a good excuse.”
Wyndall’s face lit up with a mischievous smile, “Dear Fen, my ye be quite the questionin’ one. Should a little fun be the answer ye want to hear then?” His smiling gaze never wavered, yet his jovial voice dripped a hint cryptically, “My business ‘ere hasn’t been discovered yet, but shall be seen soon enough. As ye see the results of the wind, yet ye never see the wind, so shall I be here.”
Silence lingered for a few seconds as if a cold entered the room.
With a slap of his hand against the table, Wyndall broke the awkward silence with a guffaw. “Aye, ye should see ye’s both faces! Yer as pale as sheet. Fen, the night may be over for ye, but as for me thirst—parched wouldn’t quite dictate the appropriate word.” He flipped a coin into Fen’s hand as the man poured another tankard of his homebrew into the newly cleaned mug and handed it off to Wyndall who drained it in three large gulps. He wiped the froth off his mouth and put the mug on the counter.
“Thank ye for the night’s entertainment. Come ye, Vaileyn, let’s leave the old man to his mugs,” Wyndall’s grin grew wider and his voice grew ever more exaggerated as he spoke to Fen, “Ye be a gentlemen, dear Fenner, may your ale never run dry!” Fenner merely nodded with a sigh and began cleaning the mug again. “Vaileyn, let’s meet the daylight!”
Bowing dramatically to the barkeep, he and Vaileyn stepped outside as the rays of dawn began etching their way across the horizon. They walked a fair distance before stopping atop a grassy hill to the north of the village. Across the sky, the night stars were overcome with the expanse of day—the spectacle of day and night at one with each other was too mighty to deny acknowledging. The pair of men watched in wonder as the morning sun rose to envelope the sky in its brightness.
“Wyndall, it be yet mornin’ but after the eve’s activities, I find myself a bit spent. I have an extra pallet in my cottage, so ye be welcome if ye so desire.” Vaileyn reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a hand-carved pipe, pipeweed, and a match. Preparing and lighting his pipe, he took a puff and sighed deeply.
“Aye, Vaileyn, let’s see where this bright morn will take us.”
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